Those Who Remain (Book 3)

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  A shadow looms over us. I look upward to find Irons staring at Artie with a determined expression.

  I barely move in time as the axe falls. I scream at her to stop, but it’s too late. Artie’s wails silence everything else. Irons calmly steps back, bloody axe still in her hands. Mouth agape, it takes me precious seconds to fully enter doctor mode again. I blink and snap out of the shock, immediately scrambling to help him. On my way to the gauze, bandages, and pads, I bump into a very much shell-shocked Wikus and a horrified Prudence, both barely registering my presence.

  When I rush back, Artie’s already unconscious. I press the sterilized pads onto his wound, then turn to the guards and Irons. “Someone help me put him on the table. Now!”

  They only move after the Captain nods. Two of them grab the man by his legs and arms. I ask for a third one to keep holding the pads on the amputated stump.

  While they place Artie on the table, I’m already grabbing vials of antibiotics to inject him via an IV. I raise his leg with a harness and instruct the guard to keep pressure to slow the bleeding. We need to move him into a sterilized room, or risk him succumbing to an infection anyway.

  “Dr. Miller, Wikus—stand up against the wall, please.” Irons’s command draws my attention and I turn back to face her and the rest. “Quickly, now.”

  A guard has to shove them as they are too shaken to move.

  Furious, I march forward, stopping right in front of Irons with a finger pointed at her chest. “Are you out of your mind? Did you even consider how dangerous that was? How dangerous it is for Artie? He could’ve died from shock alone. He still can!”

  “Kellerman chose amputation over the risk of infection.”

  I give her a sardonic laugh. “Artie barely had time to think over his options. Even if he decided on that solution, we’re in a freaking operating room! We could’ve done the amputation safely. With the right tools and him under sedatives. This was savage, and unwarranted! This is outrageous.”

  She glares at me, hands hiding behind her back. The axe is nowhere to be seen. “I disagree. Time was precious. The infection spreads quickly, does it not?” I open my mouth, but she’s faster. “There was no time to discuss. To argue. To prepare. Besides, I knew your presence would improve his chances of surviving. Now, please join the others, Dr. Paz.”

  “You didn’t get his consent. We have other options now. He didn’t have to lose a limb. You gambled with a man’s life.”

  The sheer contempt on her face is enough to burn my insides with even more anger. “Orwell, please help Dr. Paz.”

  A hand holds my shoulder. I struggle to get it off me, but the pressure intensifies until another hand grabs my arm and forces it behind my back. Orwell places me side by side with Prudence and then finally releases me.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I take a step forward, but Orwell draws his gun and points directly at my face. I stop cold and clench my hands into fists.

  “This is all protocol, Dr. Paz. Please cooperate. We need to check for bites,” Irons tells us, her calm tone doing nothing to reassure me.

  Prudence goes first, shedding her green scrubs, gloves, and face mask. Wikus follows her, dumping his filthy clothing onto the floor. Sometime during the incident, he vomited on his clothing.

  Orwell nods at me. “Strip.”

  “Artie was the only one bitten. There was no time and no opportunity—”

  He cocks his gun. “Do it.”

  It dawns on me that, if I don’t obey, they’ll shoot me just as easily as Irons chopped off a man’s foot. Maybe they wouldn’t kill me, but clearly, my fate is solely in Irons’s questionable hands.

  Anger and frustration flush my cheeks, but I comply at last.

  I turn around slowly with my hands in the air. The three of us do this multiple times as the barrel of Orwell’s rifle follows our movements. They don’t seem to care that the operating room is freezing or that this is humiliating to all involved.

  Finally satisfied, Irons signals Orwell to lower his weapon.

  I cover my exposed stomach with both arms. “Are you done? We need to move Artie to the infirmary. This place is contaminated enough. And I need a shower before attending him again.”

  “We’ll move Kellerman promptly and take care of any remaining issues.” She gestures in the direction of the exit. “You’re free to go. For now.”

  THE ROTTING ZOMBIE II

  A thick panel of glass reflects my own deformed appearance, but I know that on the other side, they watch me. I’m a freak on display. An animal in a zoo.

  “Lift your arms, please,” one of the doctors asks via intercom. He’s too afraid to enter my little test chamber. “A little higher.”

  I stare at them in defiance, but really, I can’t do anything but get it over with and follow their commands as if I was a trained dog. Sit. Stand. Roll around. Play dead. That one is easy. Apparently this is all for my sake. Dumb tests, stupid questions, and veggie soup, all for me. I’m honored.

  “Okay, I see the scabs are falling off, that’s a good sign. The body is fighting back.”

  “What about my face? Any chance of not looking like a radioactive mushroom for the rest of my miserable existence?”

  I shiver and lower my arms again for warmth. Dr. Whatshisface clears his throat and the microphone produces a loud ringing that hurts my ears. I jump off the slab and rush toward the glass like a bull seeking an arrogant idiot flashing red in front of my face.

  Of course, I only end up hitting my forehead against it and feeling like an idiot after the glass barely vibrates. I have no idea why I reacted this way, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I’m a freaking zombie.

  But who knows.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m great. I was just trying to speed things up by bumping my bumps against this thick, impenetrable glass. You know, that’s a famous plastic surgery technique developed by a caveman. Same guy who figured out fire was a thing.” The doctor has no response for my blabbering, so with a sigh, I go back and sit on the slab. “What now? Lift my feet? Blink twice? Clap my hands? Do I get a treat?”

  “I know you’re frustrated, but this is all for your recovery.”

  For all his talk, I’m still a zombie. So far, tests and questions have amounted to a whole lot of nothing. The hunger hasn’t gone away either. Instead, it’s stronger than ever, as is the stupidity of a zombie. I can form long and bitter speeches about my lovely condition, but from time to time, my brain shuts down and my body doesn’t obey me. There are moments when I even black out, waking up drooling rivers of saliva without a clue as to where I am or what I did.

  So much for a cure. This is sounding more like a curse.

  Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. My fingers flex better now that the tiny, dried scabs are falling off one by one. I can see better too, so I think the huge bump on my forehead has shrunk a little. I’m still bald, with weird patches of hair in a few places, but if my body is getting back to normal, it might grow back for real.

  But optimism isn’t in my DNA, mutation or not, so I’m not jumping in excitement anytime soon.

  “You know what else would be good for my recovery? Seeing my friends. How about that?”

  “Perhaps later.”

  I sigh. Nobody tells me anything. I don’t know if they don’t want to see me or if these people won’t let them see me. And after what I did to Maria, the first possibility is more likely. Or maybe they’re dead. Maybe they left for Redwood and gave up on me. I can’t decide which possibility is worse.

  “Whatever. Can we move along? I miss my cozy room.” At least when I’m away from everyone I can pretend this isn’t actually happening. Just some crazy nightmare caused by my stomach digesting the twelve slices of greasy cheese pizza I ate while binge-watching horror movies back in Redwood.

  “Soon, but first I want you to answer a few questions. What are you feeling right now?”

  “Frustration.”

  “Does
this frustration lead to your outbursts? Are you angry at something?”

  I snort. “Really?”

  This faux therapist routine really pisses me off. I don’t talk about my feelings. Not to strangers. Hell, not even to myself sometimes. I’m more of the “wallowing in complete misery” type, with a side of self-deprecating humor. Sure, I am drowning in depression here, but that’s my business, not theirs.

  “Please cooperate. It’s important we root out the reason for your violent behavior. Did you always have anger issues? You could be suffering from post-traumatic stress, which is why it’s important we explore your feelings. Telling us what’s bothering you could—”

  “I don’t know why I do it, okay? I can’t control it. So shut up already.” I cross my arms against my chest.

  Silence. Well, that’s it. I’m screwed. Great job, Danny.

  “Okay. I understand. Thank you, Danny. Now please comply with the guards,” Whatshisface tells me by comm.

  The only door opens and a pair of guards walk in. One of them tosses a gray jumpsuit and boots at me. I try to delay the inevitable, but I’m told to change. It’s awkward as hell, but I dress in the new clothes. All my nightmares are coming true these days: strangers seeing me naked and vulnerable, becoming a cannibal, ruining the lives of my loved ones. Who needs a bucket list?

  Satisfied at my humiliation, they handcuff and gag me in case I try to eat their faces. We exit the room into a hallway. The fluorescent lights hurt my eyes and the familiar headache starts up again. Sometimes my vision blurs, and people turn into nothing but big moving blobs of color. They still look tasty, though. It would be funnier if they turned into walking hot dogs like a cartoon. At least that way I could pretend I’m not planning on viciously murdering them for their delicious meat. We move through a maze of hallways, each longer than the last. Finally, the guards shove me into a pitch-black room.

  I stand in the dark, confused and dazed for so long I start to think they might be planning to kill me. Maybe I’m a failed experiment they need to get rid of?

  The lights turn on. Bright and everywhere. I shield my eyes with a hand. Finally, I adjust to the brightness enough to see what lies ahead.

  An obstacle course greets me like a shitty old friend: metal monkey bars, a climbing net, stepping stones, a wall, the whole shebang. I’m literally inside my worst nightmare: gym class. And here I thought growing up and turning into a zombie meant I would be rid of this bullshit. Nope, still cursed with exercising.

  “Hello?” I step forward. An alarm rings loudly, mercilessly destroying my eardrums in the process. “What the hell?”

  “You have two minutes to complete the obstacle course.” The voice echoes around the room, even louder than the ringing. “Starting... now!”

  “What? No. I’s not doing it,” I scream, barely surpassing all the noise.

  A dull headache, my companion for so long, turns into splitting pain, hammering its way into my brain like a marching band trying to impress a bored crowd. I can’t think. I can’t... I just...

  “You have one minute and forty seconds.”

  Suddenly, I’m running faster than I’ve ever run in my entire life, body as light as a feather. I vault over a half wall using only my hands as support as if I’m some kind of parkour king. Climbing a net is child’s play since my feet know exactly where to go to find support. I even jump the stones swiftly, without losing balance once. I do all of this with the strangest feeling of being an outside observer, not really in control of my body. It’s so fast, my brain can’t process it. There’s no second-guessing, no hesitation. I’m just doing it like I’m inside a Nike commercial.

  When I finally stop, panting and heaving, my chest is tight and blood pumps into my ears from a frenzied heartbeat. Yet, I’m not tired at all. I want to do more running around like a crazy person. I need to do something, anything. My eyes are wide, my mouth gaping. I want more. I want to eat. Now. Right now!

  A small gate opens. A bunny hops out of it, red eyes blinking rapidly, ears twitching for danger. Oh yeah, this is it. I flex my shoulders and fingers, licking my lips. The bunny, noticing the danger, skitters away. With a huge grin plastered on my face, I dash after it.

  The taste of its fur shocks me back to reality, but it’s too late. I already broke the bunny’s neck and sank my teeth into his tender flesh. I hurl its lifeless body away from me and gag. Black goo and foaming saliva drip from mouth to my chest.

  “Ah fuck. Fuckery. Fuck.” Why did I? What...? “Why did you let me do that? You should’ve stopped me!” I yell at the nothingness around me. My eyes water. This is so gross. I’m so gross.

  The searing pain hits again. I hold my head and crouch, chin on my knees and eyes shut tight until the ache is too much to bear. It’s so loud inside my mind. Everything goes black. Someone grabs me in the darkness, shoving me away. Nails are hammered into my mushy brain. Hands force me to stand, holding me by both arms. I open my eyes only to find myself tied up in a chair with a woman standing in front of me. Clad in white, she has her black hair tied in a ponytail and a posture yoga instructors would kill for.

  For a minute or two, she just stands there, silent and still, then she smiles. “Hello, Danny.”

  “Hey... Creepy lady. Are you here to kill me?”

  “No. I’m Captain Olivia Irons. I run this base.”

  I look around the room. It’s just me and her, no furniture, no windows, no guards. Yep, she’s crazy. “Okay, I guess. So can you tell me what the hell just happened?”

  “Of course. That was the first of many physical tests you’ll undergo. We need to study how you respond to stressful situations. That way we can evaluate whether you’re a safety concern. If the results are positive, then you’ll be able to join the general population.”

  More tests. Great. How unexpected. “I guess I failed this one, then.”

  She tilts her head and smirks. “Indeed. But you’ll get there with our help. And in the end, all sacrifices made will be worth it.”

  With a frown, I add, “You mean the bunnies?”

  “Yes.”

  I twitch in my seat, uncomfortable at the memory of snapping a little bunny’s neck with my bare hands. “Okay, moving on: since you’re the boss and all that, can I talk to my friends now? I want to see them.”

  With easy steps, she circles me. Her hands are behind her back and her voice is clear. “Later.”

  “Can’t I just talk to Roger? Like, for five minutes? For all I know they might be dead already. Or you threw them out of this place.”

  She strides back into position, facing me. “I have no reason to do that. They’re doing just fine here, after adjusting to their new circumstances.”

  “Then let me see them.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Why?”

  She slants her eyebrows upward and sighs. “Do you really want to risk their lives? Look what you almost did to Dr. Paz. A visit would likely trigger an emotional response and cause another violent episode. You’re still contagious and deadly. Are you that selfish?”

  I snort. “Yeah. I kinda am. Sorry. Besides, they can take care of themselves. Especially Lily. She can stop me from doing anything. Or you could just tie me up like I’m Hannibal Lecter or something. Sure, he escaped multiple times and killed a bunch of people, but... this ain’t a movie. Yet.”

  Her pity dissolves really quickly and transforms into annoyance. “This is no joking matter. The danger is real. So, I’m going to deny your request.”

  My chubby hands go into my brand-new pockets. “Fine. Whatever. So... Can I leave now?”

  “Yes.”

  They drag me back to my cell. Room. Whatever. Bored out of my mind and tired, I fall asleep until the hunger wakes me up. I growl and drool. The now-familiar anger and frustration rise from the pit of my empty stomach. All my muscles tighten, adrenaline pushing me to do something rash and zombie-like, but this time I can control it. It doesn’t overwhelm me. Instead, it obeys me
and I calm down.

  Huh.

  THE DOCTOR XV

  January 25th, Monday, 4 am

  I don’t know why exactly, but I stop at Tigh’s door and stare at it for a long time. I raise my hand to knock on it, but stop midair. It’s too early in the morning. He deserves the rest.

  So instead, I go back to my own room and shower, getting rid of the sweaty clothes that cling to my body. Even after tossing the gloves, mask, and scrubs into the medical waste bin back at the labs, I can still smell blood somewhere on me. As the hot water flows, tension leaves my muscles but not my mind. I lost a patient and Artie might still die.

  I made another mistake and once again other people have to pay for it. And the cure didn’t work. It didn’t work.

  I place both hands against the tiles, close my eyes, and let out a sob. I shake my head and put my fingers over my mouth to stop more from escaping. There’s no use for tears. If I start crying, I’m afraid I won’t stop.

  No. I have a patient to attend to. I can still save him. Determined, I stand upright again and finish showering, trying my hardest not to think about anything.

  As I dry my hair, someone knocks on my door, first softly, then urgently. When I reach the door, the pounding threatens to shake the door from its hinges.

  “Maria?” It’s Tigh’s voice, muffled but still very much recognizable. “Are you there?”

  The urgency in his tone can’t be a good sign. I open the door, already expecting more bad news. He looks me over from head to toe, not unlike all those times I inspected him for injuries.

  “Tigh, I thought you were sleeping.” But from his combed hair and the guard uniform he wears, he has been awake for a while.

  “My shift starts in half an hour.” For a second he just stares at me in a haze and then he shakes his head. “But that doesn’t matter right now. Are you all right? And why is there blood on your door handle?”

  “What?”